


The Stranger

by Callistemon



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Catholic Matt Murdock, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Mister Fear, Reunion, The Man without Fear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-11 00:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callistemon/pseuds/Callistemon
Summary: A stranger appears in Matt Murdock’s life in periods of crisis. It takes him three decades to learn her name.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> [I posted the last chapter of this story just before the Defenders was released. In light of what happened at the end of the series, I felt compelled to add a couple of extra chapters. If you haven't watched the Defenders, the story is spoiler free up to and including chapter 6 ie. the original end.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This story roughly follows the Netflix timeline, but there are certain moments in the comics that I've referenced: chapter 1 draws from The Man without Fear #1; chapter 5 references an encounter with Larry Cranston in Daredevil #100; and chapter 6 references revelations in Daredevil 4 #7. It fills my 'Reunion' Daredevil Bingo square.

Matt first encountered her in hospital. Blinded by the accident, he was losing his mind thanks to the bewildering onslaught of sounds and smells. His blood burned as the radioactive chemicals surged through his body, slamming against the back of his skull, changing him… changing everything. The hospital smelled of sweat and half-boiled eggs and blood and death - a miasma of horror. The pain was too much.

He kicked the sheets away. Abrasive and reeking of chemicals, they were like sandpaper on his skin. The needle in his hand scraped against the inside of his vein, the newfound hyperawareness making him retch. The bandage around his eyes shifted uncomfortably and squirmed in his bed, hands pressed against his ears, moaning from the pain and confusion.

A hand gently touched his arm and he startled. “Matty, I know it’s overwhelming,” she said softly. He kept his hands over her ears, but he could hear her clear as day. Matt stopped squirming momentarily. He removed one of his hands from his ears and cringed at the increase in volume.

Somehow, she knew what was happening before he did. “Matty, your senses – I know they’re overwhelming right now, but they’re a blessing.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “You mustn’t tell anyone about your senses – not even your father.”

Matt could hear her heartbeat, the rustle of her clothes, the clink of something around her neck. She leaned over so that the chain was directly over his head, a heavy cross dangling from the bottom. He reached up and rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the tiny burrs in the surface. It was calming, familiar, and it dawned on him that maybe - just maybe - he could get through this.

She waited patiently for him to finish before gently kissing his forehead, her lips soft against his skin. “You will do great things, Matty. I know you will.” And with that, she was gone.


	2. II

In the orphanage courtyard, there was a small nook behind a sandstone wall. It was protected by a heavy curtain of ivy and was just the right size for a gangly teenage boy. There was not much privacy to be had in the orphanage, and it was one of the only places where Matt could escape the gaze of others.

Matt rarely cried. Crying was a weakness – or so Stick said. But Stick had just left him, just like dad, just like his mother. Once again, he was alone. A wave of self-pity washed over him and he curled into himself, a few tears dripping down his face. The tears turned into an audible sob. He punched himself in the leg, trying to turn the emotional pain into a pain more tolerable.

He was so unsettled that he didn’t notice her approach. He startled as the ivy was pulled aside and a gentle voice said, “Matthew?”

Matt quickly wiped the tears from his eyes, and replaced his glasses. He kept his head tilted down so as not to show his face to the stranger. He didn’t recognise her voice, but he could tell that she was middle-aged with sturdy shoes and thick clothes that rustled as she moved. A chain clinked around her neck and thanks to Stick’s training, Matt sensed the outline of a cross dangling at the end. A nun then. He moved back as far as he could go. He didn’t trust any of the nuns, not even Sister Mary Gertrude, who’d never demonstrated anything but kindness towards him.

“Can I help?” the stranger said.

“No,” Matt replied, his voice husky.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“No.”

There was an awkward silence as she tried to come up with something else to offer the distraught teenager.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” she eventually asked.

“No.”

She sighed and stood up. Matt used it as an opportunity to duck through the narrow gap between the wall and the nun’s rotund frame. He ran across the courtyard and through the side entrance to the orphanage, not bothering to hide his spatial abilities. As he hid behind the door, he could sense her still standing by the nook. He waited for another ten minutes, waiting for her to move, the anger building within him all the while. Frustrated, he kicked the hallway cabinet as hard as he could, smiling at the satisfying crunch of splintering wood.

“Matthew Murdock,” a voice shrieked from the other end of the long hall.

His focus had been so intently trained on the woman outside that he’d failed to keep track of inside. Of all the nuns to catch him, it had to be Sister Agnes. He groaned.

Her voice shook as she said brusquely, “what have we taught you about violence and the destruction of property?”

Matt ducked his head, a slight smirk on his face. “Only do it when there’s no one around to witness it?”

Sister Agnes grabbed him roughly by the arm. “That’s it, you’re going to see Sister Benedict,” she snapped. As the nun dragged him unceremoniously down the hall, her bony fingers digging into his arm, he refocused on the nun outside. She was gone.


	3. III

Matt stumbled and fell against the church railings. He was losing blood fast. Holding the gash in his chest, he clung onto a railing. Claire was right - he _did_ need body armour. The thin black fabric just wasn’t cutting it. He leaned his head against the railings, trying to clear his head. He had to get to Claire, but she was eight blocks away. He could barely stand up straight, let alone make his way unnoticed to her apartment. He was tired… so, so tired. Using the fence as a guide, he felt his way to the church gate. There were bushes down the side where he could rest. He’d barely made it through the entrance when the dizziness overwhelmed him. His legs buckled and he fell unconscious outside the church doors.

He awoke in bed. It was hard, but at least it wasn’t the bushes. There was the unmistakable scent of incense, polished wood and dust. The church. He felt around him. The bed was narrow and the sheets coarse. There was a towel underneath his torso and he remembered the wound, which was now bandaged and held together with tape. It wouldn’t hold if he moved, but it had obviously stopped him from bleeding out. Suddenly realising that not only had his shirt been removed, but also his mask, he panicked. There was no sign of Father Lantom, or anyone else for that matter… but there were now footsteps approaching.

Matt rolled off the bed and under it, holding his breath. The person at the door wasn’t scared. He quickly assessed her: female, wearing robes, moderate height, smelled of cheap soap with a hint of damp wool. There was a clink of the chain around her neck as she moved forward a few steps.

“Matthew, you can stay under there if you’d like, but I suspect you’d be more comfortable on _top_ of the bed.” Matt continued to hold his breath. She knew who he was. Shit. The stone floor was freezing and he had to admit the idea of being on top of the bed, even with the raw sheets, was appealing. “I hope you haven’t opened up that cut again.”

He could feel the bandage quickly becoming damp and heavy. If he didn’t stop the bleeding, he’d lose consciousness again. Either way he was at her mercy, and it was better to be awake. He crawled out from beneath the bed, and slowly pulled himself onto the edge, facing away from the mystery woman.

“Can I see?” She walked around and crouched in front of him, gently lifting the bandage. “It’s going to need stitches to hold properly, but I can reapply tape as a stop gap measure if you’d like. Will you lie down again for me?” If she noticed that he was blind, she didn’t say anything.

Matt couldn’t say why he trusted this woman enough to lie down, but he didn’t question it. He was tired and her voice and heartbeat didn’t waver. She didn’t mean him harm - he knew that - but didn’t know _how_ he knew it.

She bent over and he could sense the weight of the cross around her neck, swinging just above his head. He reached out and touched it, feeling the fine scratches and burrs just as he’d done over a decade earlier.

She waited for him to finish before removing the bandage and cleaning the wound. Once the fresh dressing was in place, she went to move away, but Matt reached out and touched the cross once again, lingering on it for only a few seconds. Without another word, she left the room and Matt was left alone, confused and uneasy, unable to follow her movements beyond the hallway. He lay there, hand over his chest, until he sensed a growing warmth from the small window above the bed. After slowly and painfully pulling on his bloodied shirt, he slipped out the door before the sun had a chance to rise.


	4. IV

There was a crunch as a heavy metal rod slammed across the back of his head.

He woke up in bed. There were hushed whispers coming from the corner, but his brain couldn’t make sense of the words. He groaned as he tried to get up, but his limbs weren’t having a bar of it. The whispering stopped, and was followed by a rush of footsteps.

“Hush, Matthew. Lie still.”

The rustle of robes, the cheap soap, the clink of a chain…

He reached out, needing confirmation, needing the cross. She understood and crouched beside the bed, placing the cross in his hands. She unfurled his other hand and into it placed a string of rosary beads.

“Who- who a-?” he couldn’t get the words out.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to the hospital?” the other woman asked.

“Matthew, you’ve injured your head,” she whispered at a volume too low for the other nun to hear. “We can take you to the hospital, but I assume you don’t want to be seen in these clothes.” It wasn’t until that point that he realised he wasn’t wearing his horned mask. He scrubbed at his face. “Whe-”

“I put it aside,” she whispered. “It was a bit… controversial.”

“But – my face.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen your face, Matthew.”

There was a crash at the other end of the hall as a third person entered. “Sister,” a stern voice called. There was a silent exchange – a series of hand movements that Matt couldn’t decipher. The woman gently cupped Matt’s face and rubbed her thumb soothingly against his jaw before hurrying towards the door, her rapid footsteps echoing throughout the hall. There was a whispered conversation between the two remaining women, but Matt was too tired to concentrate on their words. He drifted off before he could work out exactly what had just happened.

He must have slept for at least a day because when he next awoke, the temperature of the windows indicated night and a light snoring could be heard coming from the corner of the room. Stifling a groan, he eased his way off the bed, and felt his way towards the door. The corridor was empty and he mapped out the stone surrounds, navigating the hallway until he found a small exit door.

It wasn’t until he’d got home that he realised he’d forgotten his mask. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. There was no way he could return right now. Burrowing under three layers of blankets, Matt closed his eyes and vowed to return tomorrow. If he played his cards right, he might just learn the mysterious woman’s identity at the same time.

* * *

 

The next day, he attended Sunday mass. He planned to escape as soon as the service ended, but just as he reached the door, Father Lantom called, “Matthew, just wait a second.” Matt moved aside to let his fellow parishioners out. He waited by the door until he realised that Father Lantom’s ‘wait a second’ meant a little more than just that. Matt sighed and made his way to the far corner of the church, waiting for the priest to say goodbye to the last of his flock.

Father Lantom crossed his arms as he approached. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “I have something of yours.”

From the priest’s unimpressed tone, Matt suspected what it was. He frowned. It worried him that his civilian life and Daredevil activities were crossing over like this.

“Would you like a coffee?” Lantom asked as he ushered Matt into his office.

“Not right now, thank you, father.”

“As you wish.” Father Lantom handed him a paper bag containing, as Matt suspected, his Daredevil mask. “You might want to get that fixed. There’s quite a dent in the back. I gather there’s a corresponding one on the back of your head.”

Matt unconsciously felt the back of his scalp where a prominent lump remained. He was still a little dizzy and disoriented thanks to the blow to the head, and he was finding it harder than usual to read the priest’s tone.

“Who gave this to you?” Matt asked, his heart racing.

“It was left in my pigeonhole. I almost threw it out without looking inside – it’s the curse of the paper bag I think.”

Matt nodded. “Thank you.” The bag crinkled as he tightened his grip. “Uh, I’d better be getting off.”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“No – no, thank you, father.” Clutching the bag to his chest, Matt made a speedy exit, even more confused than before.

Once home, he opened the bag and took in the smell. It smelled like her. Soap, incense, oatmeal, vinegar, and a slight tang of… was it fear? Under the mask was a small drawstring bag containing rosary beads - the rosary beads she’d placed in his hand two nights ago.

He gave the bag a final sniff before folding it neatly. Opening his bedside drawer, he placed it under the envelope of birthday cards Foggy had given him over the years. His hands ghosted over the long-deflated balloon Karen had given him that was now rolled into a neat bundle. He hesitated, then placed the rosary beads in between the black mask and his father’s old scarf. Matt couldn’t explain why he kept the bag - he just knew it was the right thing to do.


	5. V

It didn’t seem very devil-like: cowering in the corner of an alleyway. He’d experienced some pretty bizarre things during his time as Daredevil, but never fear. He was hiding, from what he didn’t know. He just knew that he couldn’t go back out there. Not now, not ever.

He bunched his fists, trying not to cry. Where had this come from? Sure, he’d been depressed – after all, Nelson & Murdock had folded, Foggy wasn’t talking to him, Elektra was dead, and Karen had cut him off – well, no, that wasn’t strictly true. Karen still occasionally talked to him, although it was only usually when she wanted information related to the Hell’s Kitchen crime scene. Depression couldn’t explain this total and utter breakdown while wearing his Daredevil suit, could it?

The day up till this point had been fairly unremarkable. He’d had a few consultations, and had visited Brett at the station to follow up on a complaint from one of his clients. He’d also been visited by a former law school classmate, Larry Cranston, who’d offered him a highly paid corporate job. Normally he wouldn’t think twice, but for some reason he hesitated before his logical self responded, “no”.

After donning his Daredevil suit for the evening, he’d scared a corner dealer into dropping his bag of drugs, the contents of which Matt immediately washed down a drain. He was about to respond to a scream from three blocks away when the wave of fear hit and he ended up curled against a brick wall.

It took him a full hour to gather up the strength and bravery to exit the alleyway. He shuffled along in the shadows, barely able to breathe. There was a bang from four blocks away and he cowered in the nearest doorway, hands over his head. He let out a desperate whine and quickly covered his mouth, cursing himself for making a sound. He was so focused on the far away shots that he didn’t notice the footsteps approaching from the other direction.

“Matthew?”

Matt startled and fell against the door. He scrambled to his feet and stood there with his fists up and his head down.

“Matthew, can I help?”

Matt heard the clink of a light metal chain, the slight creak of old leather sandals…

“Sister?” Matt said in a small voice, lowering his fists.

“What’s wrong, Matthew?”

A few tears slid down Matt’s cheeks. “I don’t know,” he said with a slight croak. “I – I can’t – I don’t understand.”

The nun didn’t hesitate. She put out her hand. “Please, come with me.”

Matt wobbled a little on his feet. She gestured to hold her hand, making the chain around her neck clink a little. Calmed by the sound, he placed his hand in hers.

“That’s the way. Good boy.” Her breath caught as she said the last two words – the first time Matt had ever heard her waver.

They walked only a block before she pulled him towards a side door. “You’ve been here before. But this time I’m going to take you to an area a little less public. I’m not – er – it’ll be quieter.”

Matt’s agitation had been lessening in the nun’s company up to that point, but her hesitation and slight jump in her heartbeat reignited his fear. He pulled away and took off in a sprint. As he rounded the corner, he heard her whisper, “stay safe, Matty.”

 _Matty_.


	6. VI

Matt’s encounter with Mister Fear had shaken him, particularly as he’d never have thought his former classmate, Larry, had the imagination - let alone the skill - to adopt the Mister Fear alias. Matt packed away his Daredevil suit that night, and hadn’t touched it for over two weeks. His confidence was shattered, and he knew it wasn’t just because of Mr Fear’s… well, whatever he did.

Matt needed to talk to someone, but he couldn’t turn to Foggy and Claire was away. This wasn’t the kind of thing that Karen would be sympathetic about, which left one person who knew about his secret: Father Lantom.

 

Matt paused outside the church to run his fingers through his rumpled hair and straighten his glasses. The church walls were thick enough that Matt didn’t notice the two sets of heartbeats inside until he was through the heavy doors. There was a slight intake of breath from both individuals as they turned towards the dishevelled Matt.

“Matthew,” Father Lantom said warmly. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you had company, I’m-” Matt stopped. Cheap soap, the clink of the chain…

“It’s fine,” the priest said. “Please, I want to introduce you to Sister Margaret.”

Matt fumbled with his cane, swapping it to his left hand and holding out his right for a handshake. “How do you do, Sister – Sister Margaret.” Matt’s hand quivered as he realised that it probably wasn’t the done thing to shake a nun’s hand. How would he know really? The only nuns he’d met since his childhood had dragged him off the street in his devil costume – it was hardly the appropriate time for a handshake.

“Matthew, I think we’ve met before,” Sister Margaret said, catching Matt’s hand.

Matt pursed his lips. Obviously, the line between his two personas were now blurred. Was there any point pretending? He said in a low voice, “you know - both of you.”

Father Lantom didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Matthew. We both know." Matt shifted uncomfortably. The priest continued, "you’re welcome to join us for a coffee… if you’d like.”

Matt panicked. Wasn’t this what he wanted – the identity of the stranger? But now, he had the paradoxical urge to run away.

“I have decaf if you’d rather… or tea,” Lantom said when Matt remained rooted to the spot.

Sister Margaret took a step forward, her chain clinking lightly. Her clothes rustled with the movement, followed closely by the scents he'd now come to associate with the stranger: cheap soap, vinegar, oats, a hint of lemon rind…

“Yes – yes - a coffee would be nice,” Matt said.

The three of them sat in silence as Father Lantom made the three decaf lattes. If Foggy were here, he'd have nattered away, filling the awkward silence with idle chitchat. But the three Catholics were used to silence and solitude. They sat there, silently analysing each other’s moods.

The priest plonked the too large mug in front of Matt. “Now for what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Lantom asked.

“Ah, I….” Matt petered off.

“I can go if you want to talk alone,” the nun interrupted.

“No- no it’s fine,” Matt said. “Please, stay.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The other night." He gestured at Sister Margaret, indicating that it was _that_ night. "I think I was under the influence of something, or someone. I haven’t felt right ever since.”

Unruffled, Father Lantom asked, “what happened?”

“I got scared. Scared in a way that I didn’t think imaginable.”

“And you think your fear was manufactured?”

“Yes,” Matt said resolutely. “I don’t get scared.”

Father Lantom sighed, but refrained from comment.

“You found me,” Matt said to Sister Margaret. “How? Why?”

Matt could sense a silent conversation taking place between the nun and the priest.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Matt said.

Father Lantom tried to distract him. “Matthew…”

“No,” Matt said, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. “Tell me. Tell me how you found me, how you always find me. In the hospital, in the church, in the _street!_ ” He swallowed and said, “you knew who I was.”

She leaned over and took one of his hands, which was clenched into a fist. She unfurled each of his fingers in turn until his hand relaxed in response.

Father Lantom quietly got up. “There's some cake in my office. I’ll go get it.”

Matt listened to the door click behind Father Lantom, and his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

“When you were born,” she started. Matt drew in a sharp breath and withdrew his hand from hers. No, she couldn't be…

“When you were born, I wasn’t well. I was depressed and it turned into a kind of psychosis. I was paranoid, delusional. I wanted – I felt this urge to h-hurt you.” She exhaled. “I knew it was wrong, and I battled these urges until one day… your father arrived home and found me… he – he stopped me. I ran away, and lived on the streets for awhile until the fog cleared. But I still didn’t trust myself. I ended up on the steps of a convent, penniless and alone. They didn’t want to take me at first, but they gave me a job and a room. I dedicated myself to studying the scriptures and they finally accepted me into the church. You can probably deduce the rest,” she said, realising she was now going off track.

Margaret waited for a response. Matt sat there stunned for a full minute before saying, “a-all that time you could have… I-I was alone. _Alone._ You knew dad had died and yet you left me in the orphanage.”

“It was my new life. I couldn't tell the church I'd had a child out of wedlock, and I thought it would hurt you if you knew.”

“So you let your child grow up an orphan instead,” Matt spat.

“You went on to college, you went to law school, and you now help people both day and night. You thrived.”

“I didn’t _thrive_.”

She sighed. “They figured it out in the end – the church. They figured it out just as I was about to tell you. They tried to get me to stay away, and for the most part I did. But then I found you in the church yard and I couldn’t leave you to bleed to death.”

Matt frowned. “The other night - you knew I was out there, scared. How did you know to find me?”

“You feel that connection too,” Sister Margaret pointed out. “It shows you were never alone.”

“You think because you found me the other night - that you asked me what was wrong once in the orphanage - that you once put a _lousy piece of tape over a wound_ \- you think that means I’m not alone? I’ve been alone since the day dad died. After you got better, you could have found me, you could have been there for me as a _mother_ , not just a benevolent stranger.” Through clenched his teeth, he added, “and don’t you _dare_ hide behind the rules of the church. It was your choice. _Yours_.” He stood up quickly, fumbling with his cane. “I have to – I have to go.”

Matt could hear her small breaths as she debated whether to say something, but he wasn’t going to give her the chance. He strode out the door as fast as he could. There was a trash can outside the church, which he kicked hard against the fence, leaving a massive dent in its side. Roiling, he marched home, slamming his front door so hard that plaster crumbled from the ceiling.

_‘You mustn’t tell anyone about your senses – not even your father… can I help… you’ll be more comfortable… it’s not the first time I’ve seen your face… good boy… you thrived…’_

Matt cried and cried, unable to make sense of the situation. His mother. Alive. He’d encountered her over and over, and she'd deceived him every time. Even knowing his mother (his _mother!)_ was out there, he'd never felt more alone. He cried until he had nothing more in him, finally falling asleep with his head buried in his pillow.

He woke with a snuffle, cold and hungry. Rolling over, he hit his clock. “ _9.35pm_ ” the robotic voice announced. Without thinking, Matt pulled out his phone and croaked, “call Foggy.”

Foggy answered on the fourth ring.

“Foggy?” Matt said weakly, his voice husky.

“Yeah Matt?” Foggy said tiredly. There was a pause and Foggy said more urgently, “Matt? Is everything-”

“I miss you,” Matt said in a half-whisper as tears started forming again. “I really miss you.”

“I miss you too, buddy.” At Foggy’s words, Matt’s tears turned into sobs again. He curled in on himself in an attempt to muffle the sound, his chest aching. He could hear Foggy yelling into the phone, trying to get a response, trying to figure out what was wrong. Eventually, Foggy said, “I’m coming around.”

As Matt’s weeping tapered off, he realised that Foggy hadn't demanded an explanation for the sudden call after months of silence. He was coming without conditions or questions. Foggy was coming. It dawned on Matt that maybe he wasn’t alone after all. Not really.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching the final scene of the Defenders, I felt compelled to write a couple of additional chapters to this story. I really didn't expect to see Maggie (or at least an implied Maggie) to pop up in the Defenders.

The first thing Matt became aware of was the searing pain in his head. He tried to vocalise a response, but he couldn’t even find the strength to groan. His lips twitched minutely, triggering a flurry of activity beside him.

“Get Sister Margaret,” someone whispered.

 _Sister Margaret_ , Matt repeated in his mind. He struggled to place his body and his thoughts. Although he acknowledged there were words spoken, their significance left him almost immediately, blown away by the winds of pain and confusion.

The next time he woke, his awareness had expanded. There were tingling sensations down his arms and chest, accompanied by a sharp radiating pain down one side. His breath hitched and he gave a weak moan.

There was a sudden rustling beside his bed and a cold hand grasped his own. Grass, old newspaper, vanilla, incense, almonds…

“Call Sister Margaret,” the woman called.

This time the words made sense. Matt tried to speak, opening his mouth a crack and letting out a faint, gurgled, “ergh”.

“Shhh shhh shhh…” the woman said, giving his arm a rub. “Don’t speak.”

“Nnnh,” was Matt’s response.

Footsteps approached, accompanied by the smell of lemon, cheap soap, oatmeal, vinegar, and now antiseptic…

Matt shook his head. It wasn’t. She could never be. She gave up that title three decades ago.

“Matthew,” Sister Margaret whispered. “You’re awake.” She touched his forehead and he turned his head away. “No, don’t, please,” she said, a hint of distress in her voice.

Just moving his head was exhausting, but he tried again nonetheless. He couldn’t be here…. He frowned. _How_ was he here?

“Here, have a drink,” Sister Margaret said softly. “Sister Mary Gertrude, if you could help,” she urged. Gentle hands lifted his head and a cup was placed against his lips. He was thirsty, but his body was still on strike. He choked on the water and drops splattered all over his chest.

“It’s okay,” one of the other women said. “We’ll try again later.”

“He needs to rehydrate now,” Sister Margaret said urgently. “Matthew, I need you to breathe, concentrate, and take a small sip.”

Hands against head. Cup against lips. Sip. Water on his tongue. Swallow.

“Good boy,” she whispered.

Matt didn’t realise how thirsty he was until that moment. He greedily took another sip and then more and more until he’d downed the entire cup. Shaking with the exertion, he exhaled in relief when they lowered his head.

“We need to change his dressings,” Sister Mary Gertrude said.

“Let him rest first,” Margaret replied, placing a string of rosary beads in Matt’s hand and closing his fingers around the cross.

“He’s as much our responsibility as yours, Sister Margaret,” another woman said. “You know the rules.”

That caught Matt’s attention. Sister Margaret had previously told him the church had tried to keep her away from him. “Hhh-” Matt started.

“Shhh, rest.”

“H-how here?” Matt managed, finally opening his eyes.

There was a silence from the Sisters. Margaret crouched next to Matt’s bed and pressed her gold cross into his palm. He ran his fingers over the now familiar lines and burrs before letting it swing loose around her neck. Softly, she said, “our connection was never severed, Matthew. I just knew.”

The other Sisters were silent, watching the moment of intimacy with discomfort. Finally, one of them said in a clipped voice, “Sister Margaret, can I talk to you outside please,” and all but one sister left the room. Matt closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep before he could think to listen.

Over the next few days, Matt’s senses sharpened, his wounds started to heal and the Sisters managed to get him sitting up to eat. He also started plotting his escape. Sister Margaret hadn’t returned after that initial encounter, and Matt told himself that he was glad. He didn’t need to be saved by her.

Despite the pain, Matt found a temporary peace in the convent. When they couldn’t source a braille bible, the Sisters took turns reading bible passages out loud and praying with him. While gracious to the Sisters, he didn’t engage them in conversation outside the scriptures or his health, not wanting to invite questions about how he got here, or his relationship to Sister Margaret. He quickly realised the feeling was mutual.

A few weeks later, Matt limped out of the convent feeling lost and overwhelmed. He knew he should go home, but there was something nagging at him - and it wasn’t his near-death experience. He fingered the wad of cash the sisters had given him. It was enough for a taxi home, they’d said. But home wasn’t enough for Matt. _Our connection was never severed._ Matt threw his focus to the convent behind him. She was at the window, watching, unable to say goodbye. Ignoring the waiting taxi driver’s impatient huffs, Matt ducked his head and hobbled away down the street.

 

Breaking into Foggy’s apartment was child’s play for Matt. Despite living in one of New York’s most crime-ridden areas, Foggy had long ignored Matt’s pleas to update his locks. Matt limped over to the couch and lowered himself into a nest of pillows. After half an hour, he gingerly raised his legs onto the couch, and quickly found himself nestling his face into the pillows.

Matt woke to a hysterical Foggy. “How… what…?” Foggy gasped. Matt opened his mouth to speak, but before he could figure out what to say, Foggy sobbed, “never mind. I need to hug you, you bastard.”

“Fog, thank you for… mmm…” Matt breathed into his friend’s shoulder.

Foggy didn’t need to hear the end of the sentence. He whispered back, “that’s what family’s for.”


	8. VIII

“Matt, phone call for you from the fifteenth precinct,” Becky called to Matt.

Matt stabbed at the grid of buttons on his desk phone. According to Foggy, new Nelson & Murdock offices called for a new secretary and new phones, but Matt still hadn’t quite got the hang of the call transfer function. He mumbled a curse and walked to Becky’s desk instead.

“Matt Murdock speaking,” he said into his secretary’s phone.

A single word came in reply, warm but forthright: “ _Matthew_.” He’d recognise that tone anywhere.

“Sister Margaret?” he said, scratching his forehead. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t call him here. His brain said ‘hang up’ and yet his gut kept him holding the phone to his ear.

“ _Matthew, I need a lawyer. I hear you’re a good one_.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Becky left the office for the day, Foggy rounded on Matt. “What’s going on?”

Matt frowned.

“Don’t give me that look. You get a mysterious phone call then disappear out the door without even so much as a goodbye. Not only did you come back looking weirdly content, but you won’t tell us this new client’s name, which makes me think you’re up to one of your shady schemes again.”

“I don’t scheme and I’m not shady,” Matt retorted.

“If you want to do this again,” Foggy said, gesturing between them, “you have to be honest-”

“Margaret Murdock,” Matt interrupted.

“What?”

“The new client.” Matt clasped his hands on the table, and angled his head straight at Foggy. “Her name is Sister Margaret Murdock and she was arrested on charges of trespass after protesting a scientific research facility that’s allegedly involved in criminal activity.”

Foggy shook his head, confused. “Hang on, back up. Margaret Murdock as in your, um…?”

“Yep.”

“Sister as in-”

“Yep.”

“Oh, Matt. That’s-” Foggy pulled a face and leaned against Matt’s desk. “You okay?”

Matt huffed and simply replied, “do you have that bottle of wine the real estate agent gave us as an office warming gift?”

Foggy stared, one eyebrow raised. “Uh, yes. It’s next to the filing cabinet I think.”

“Good,” Matt said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Pour us a glass and I’ll start from the top.”


End file.
